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Sinthaster in Arkrest, February 21, 1013
The squalor of Arkrest clung to our robes as we passed; stench, muck and human mire clawed at our ankles and flooded our boots. We paid no mind to the broken heathen bodies that littered the streets, our target was far grander a prize. Riga, a cult matriarch, had amassed so grand a following that local Arkrestian militia surrendered province to the Darkmoon Saints; to us. For several months our brothers and sisters had captured acolytes and tortured them for information. Every broken bone led us closer to her hole where she hid. These heathens soon learned that no spirit would save them from Darkmoon jurisdiction. As we entered in the lower quarters of the city we were met with armed resistance. Cultists, spears hungering for holy blood, sought us out and attempted to stop us. They were untrained for such well-armored and highly skilled combatants. The pagan fools who stood before us were brought low beneath our mettle. We had little time for them; their judgment was without recourse. What use have we for prisoners? Rain began to fall; the dancing droplets a war drum before our arrival to Riga’s sanctuary. Chapel Kellen, a place of worship and a holy site to the Seven, now shielded a heretic from holy Judgment. My men stood at arms, sickle-moon shields brought to bear before the face of the chapel. They awaited my command. I spoke aloud to my men, their faces stone with determination. “This hallowed place has been besmeared with the vile sin of these faithless pagans. This Septist ground spat upon by heathens who have no respect for our gods or our laws.” I stepped towards the door, my voice now directed at the cultists within. “If any of you should feel your lives worth value, take heed to come hither. Leave your weapons, leave your sin, accept the Seven. With the gods as my witness we shall not take the life of any man or woman who swears fealty to us now. Stand against us, and may Húrin find you brave. You have one minute.” No sound save for the rain. No doors opened. No weapons dropped. “To our work, then,” I said to my soldiers. We stormed the church and crashed against a wall of poorly-armed cultists. Though many there were they posed little threat. Their spears were broken and their bodies sundered. They did not route, despite their losses. They fought to the last until no oaken panel was left unglazed with cultist blood. “Scatter and find Riga,” I say as I wipe blood from my blade. “Reagar take your men to the basement, Angolin to the courtyard. I’ll inspect the priest’s chambers above.” I climbed the last few steps of the winding staircase to the priest’s chambers. I could see the room was lit through the cracks in the door, but something was amiss: if Riga knew we were coming, why not run? Was I walking into an ambush with no back up? I pushed open the door slowly, my shield brought up against the threat of the darkness. It could be a trap… it could be an ambush… for all I know, Riga could have already fled entirely. My confusion yielded to fear as my eyes came to rest upon a woman standing in the center of the room. With her back to me I lowered my shield to inspect the floors and walls; no traps, no weaponry. The room was bare as was her body save for a silken sash; wet from rain it clung to her lithe form exposing her lean muscle. “Riga,” I said, noting her failure to acknowledge my presence. “Turn to face me, heathen wretch.” The instinctive bite in my words startles her but not in the way I expect. She laughs. “A wretch, am I? How course these Saints have made you, Sinthaster.” My name? How could she known my name? She turns towards me, her face enveloped in the sash to create a shadowed veil. In her hands she fondles a sword, its edge caked red with rust and blood. With rehearsed precision I bring my own sword in level with her neck and, though she remains nearly 10 yards away, prepare myself to close the distance. Whatever plot her demon saint prophecies it shall be met with steel and anger. Then she removes her veil and I am in horror. “Sky,” I say, my lips trembling with the sensual familiarity of the name. Beyond any doubt it is her; not just her face betrays her but her hands, her hair, the cold fire in her breath and eyes. Even in the darkness I can see her clearly. My sword begins to drop. “My name…” she pauses. In the dim light I see it in her too; that recollection, the embrace of warm memories after years of numbing distance. She makes the slightest twitch, a shiver in her lips, and I know that something in her longs to betray her destiny. I know this because I, too, feel this pull. “My name is Riga, Saint,” she says with forced threat behind her teeth. I snap back into myself and remember… I am a Saint. She, a heretic. As her eyes burn me I remember my oaths. My sword lurches back into position, the moon on my shield gleaming. “By jurisdiction of Harrus Godfrey king of Larkenvale, the laws of Lancerus and before the authority of our High Lord Húrin, I, Sinthaster the Wolfeater, captain of the Second Legion of the Darkmoon Saints, hereby sentence you to death.” “Death?” She says impetuously. “You claim divine right over me? Your friend?” “Sky was my friend. You, Riga, are not.” I begin to walk towards her, weapons ready. She turns her gaze away from me before her face contorts into a smile. “You claim divine right over a daughter of the Goth?” She lunges at me; armed only with her sword she presses me towards the doorway. I’m caught off-guard by her speed and aggression, my shield the only barrier between me and her wrath. Whatever anger her life has burdened her with she uses as fuel against me, wresting control of the fight and pushing me towards the stairs. Anger, anger is her fire. I know little of anger, but I do know of fear. Fear of death is stronger than any fury. I push with all my might and force my shield into her face, breaking her guard and forcing an opening. My sword slithers into her right thigh. She does not falter; rather, her eyes lock with mine and I see them contort into something feral. She drops her sword, grabs my shoulder with her right hand and my sword with her left. We’re pinned together like a sculpture of meat and iron, our gaze unyielding. Then I feel my sword begin to heat. Hotter and brighter it gets until the weapon is red and searing into our flesh. She seems immune, yet I feel incredible pain even through my leather glove. I cannot look away from her. In her eyes is everything I remember that I admired in her from our youth multiplied a thousand times and subjected to pain, loss and suffering. Behind her anger I see sadness. We are lost to each other. Then, as the pain becomes unbearable, I realize; this is dark magic. True, evil magic. No potion, no alchemy can achieve what she is doing to me now. My weapon, red hot and glowing, boils through my glove and forces me to recoil and I am forced to leave her eyes. Before she can act I swing my shield with all my strength into her head. She crumples to the floor like a broken effigy. My sword drops with her, still buried in her leg. No burns mar her ivory skin where blood freely flows. I inspect my glove as my brother Saints enter the room behind me; no scorch, no mark. They bend low to inspect the woman as I continue to ponder my uninjured hand. “Komtur,” a Saint says, using my ‘official’ title, “she is alive. Is that your wish? Is Fumna to spare this one?” I turn to him, my vision centered on the Darkmoon sigil emblazoned on his pauldron. “No,” I say. “Riga belongs to Húrin now. Take her. Húrin shall have His way with her at my hand, but not this day.” They leave with her in tow and I am left, yet again, with naught but a memory. My hand tingles from false fire, my mind swims with memoirs that betray reality… and in the end, I realize that she was nothing more than a willing slave to another being’s ideals. As am I.